


The Bar at the End of the World

by onecoolcactus



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Depression, M/M, crowley gets bored and is sometimes left to his own devices, doesn't get too serious though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 17:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21212756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onecoolcactus/pseuds/onecoolcactus
Summary: Crowley finds himself at loose ends. Aziraphale supports him, and they accidentally make a middle ground for everyone else.





	The Bar at the End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> I have this listed as 2 chapters but it might stretch to 3 if I'm allowed to talk forever >.<

“You know,” Crowley said, in the sort of tone that indicated that he had put a good deal of thought into what he was about to say, and Aziraphale should put down his book. Aziraphale, after tucking an old, tasseled bookmark between the pages, put down his book. “I’ve always thought about trying my hand at bartending.”  
  


Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.  


“Bartending?” he asked, rolling the word around in his mouth like it was completely foreign to him. “My dear, you would hate the part where you have to deal with the customers.”  


“I would, wouldn’t I?” Crowley replied, sounding rather bright about it. “It would be a properly demonic exercise. A seedy little bar, dark corners, the like.”  


Aziraphale decided not to point out that to be properly demonic, Crowley would have to encourage a lot worse than dim lighting. He folded his hands over his stomach, considering the idea.  


“You’d need a bar,” he pointed out. Crowley waved his hand dismissively, “Do you know how to mix drinks?”  


Crowley rolled his head to look at him. His yellow eyes glittered with amusement, tongue flickering out. Aziraphale couldn’t help but let his own mouth curl up at the edges at the sight of it. If his laugh was infectious, Crowley’s mischievous grin was downright _ contagious _.  


“I think, angel,” he said in an imperious tone, “that I know my alcohol.”  


Aziraphale snorted.  


“You know how to drink your alcohol, my dear,” he teased, “Tell me a cocktail you can make. Right now; no cheating.”  


Crowley stretched, then yawned. He cracked his jaw offensively loud.   
  


“Alright,” he sniffed after a bit. “I can learn.”  


“So you would need a bar,” Aziraphale continued, “And you would need to learn how to make drinks to serve. What else is left?”  


“My winning personality?” Crowley said, turning onto his side and flinging a long arm over Aziraphale. Aziraphale caught his book before it fell off his lap, gently placing it on the bedside table. Crowley was pouting now. He was hiding it in the sleeve of Aziraphale’s pajama shirt, but Aziraphale knew what a pout looked like without seeing his face.  


“I didn’t say it was undoable,” he said, rolling over and shimmying down so that he could look Crowley in the face. “I just meant that it would be a bit of work. Running a business isn’t easy.”  


“You do it. Every day, in fact.”  


Aziraphale considered this. He also considered that this might run a little deeper than just a casual idea that Crowley had been tumbling around in his head for fun. He ran fingers through Crowley’s hair, scratching manicured nails at the base of his skull. Crowley leaned into the touch, and if snakes could purr, Aziraphale suspected he would.  


“I do,” he said carefully, “I know my reputation with paying customers is a little suspect--”  


Crowley snorted. Aziraphale paused long enough to allow him the laugh.  
  


“But I do run a business every day. And I deal with all of the little things that come with it, whether I’m tracking books down, restoring them, or chasing paying customers out the door,” he rested his chin on Crowley’s head. “So what’s brought this on?”  


Crowley squirmed under the blanket, like he might try to escape. Aziraphale didn’t try to stop him. Crowley had, after all, been the one to throw his arms around Aziraphale. He would have to be the one to let go-- which he wouldn’t.   


“Nothing,” Crowley lied first, then buried his face against Aziraphale’s shirt again. _ “Mmmmphnomoregodengirlan--”  
_

“Crowley.”  


Silence again, then Crowley huffed.  


“Can only watch so much Golden Girls, I guess,” he muttered, “I don’t want to ruin the show for myself.”   


This might have been an incomprehensible answer to the question, if Aziraphale were anybody else. He wasn’t though, and after a few moments of parsing Crowley’s words, he began to uproot them and look underneath.   


The first, most shallow interpretation was that Crowley was _ bored _. This was making the assumption that Crowley was incapable of entertaining himself, which Aziraphale-- having been the victim of many sudden “organizations” done by the demon-- knew was untrue. If Crowley were bored, he only had to walk a few feet before finding something to do.   


The second consideration ran a bit deeper into Aziraphale’s insecurities, and was more frightening to him. The idea that Crowley was in need of a _ change _ hung amongst several of Aziraphale’s fears. But his own insecurity wasn’t what this was about, and the way Crowley hung on to him just as firmly as he had a year ago, when the world did not end, did not speak to wanting a change between _ them.  
  
_

The last idea was the one Aziraphale examined the closest. Crowley was _ aimless _. He didn’t get radio calls from Hell, or missives, or jobs. He didn’t get commendations or job-well-dones now, even if he hadn’t exactly liked all of them. At least, when Hell was involved, he had things to do-- or things to avoid doing. Crowley was at his best when he’d procrastinated on a job for a good, long time.  


“I see,” Aziraphale said, very gently, because he didn’t want Crowley to retract anything in a desperate attempt at defending the belly he’d laid bare for the angel to see. “Alright. Do you think, when you start bartending, it’s going to be a job you’d like to keep doing in fifty years? A hundred?”  


Crowley thought about it. Aziraphale sensed the answer ahead of him. Crowley wouldn’t necessarily like the _ customers _, but he would like the people. He liked stories. He liked when people were funny, he liked when they weren’t. He liked jerks and kind people alike. A bartending job would put him right in the prime spot to know people, for better or for worse. He could perfectly imagine Crowley behind a bar, soaking in the best and worst of humanity.   


Crowley seemed to have come to the same conclusion, because he nodded slowly. Aziraphale gave his hair one last scratch, then reached over and clicked his lamp off.  


“Alright then,” he said, “Let’s see what we can do come morning.”  
  


Morning came, and it saw Crowley bounding out the door with a quick peck on Aziraphale’s cheek and a promise to bring some lunch later. Aziraphale watched him leave, surprised, then shook his head. Crowley was big picture. Crowley had built the night sky and worked his way down to teaching humans how to navigate by it. He would find his perfect bar and work his way down to the finer details.   


Aziraphale shut his log book and, five minutes after opening, happily closed the shop. He could work on the finer details himself, and meet Crowley halfway. He booted up the ancient computer in the back and began to do a search with hesitant, pick-peck typing.   


Once done finagling the computer and the printer to work together, Aziraphale decided not to bother opening the shop, instead finding work in restoring one of his newest acquisitions. Doing the job by miracle would have been instant, but Aziraphale quite liked the human way of going about it. The book was not particularly valuable, but it was old and well-loved, and the poor thing’s spine was in tatters. It also had an unfortunate case of silverfish, which Aziraphale _ did _ wave away with a disgusted huff.   


Lunchtime came quick, and Crowley’s re-arrival in the shop was heralded first by a muffled roar of an antique engine, followed by a coppery clang of the bell over the door.  


“Hey angel,” he called brightly, sweeping off his sunglasses and tossing them onto Aziraphale’s desk. “I brought lunch.”  


He held up a plastic bag with two to-go boxes inside. Aziraphale smiled, gently closed his work in progress, and joined Crowley on the couch. Bruschetta was in the first one, which they shared equally. A nice carbonara was in the second. Crowley tried it, pronounced it ‘acceptable enough’, and let Aziraphale have the rest.   
  


“So,” Crowley said, once Aziraphale popped the to-go box shut with a squeak of styrofoam. “I think I found a place. A bar.”  


“So soon?” Aziraphale asked, though he had expected this, “Have you already acquired it?”  


He didn’t ask how Crowley might have gone about such a thing, deliberately avoiding the word ‘purchase’. He might like to do things the human way, but Crowley still enjoyed the benefits of being a demon and nudging things to his preference. Aziraphale had no intention of ‘thwarting’ him at this, so opted instead to simply _ not know about it _.   


“No,” Crowley said, giving Aziraphale a side eye. After a minute, he tilted his head and looked away. “Well. I wanted you to look at it first.”  


Oh. Aziraphale paused, considered this, then smiled.   


“Alright then.”  
  


One terrifyingly fast drive across the city brought them to the place. Happily removing himself from the lovely deathtrap Crowley called a car, Aziraphale gave it a long once over.  


“...It needs a bit of work, doesn’t it?” he suggested, looking at the front door, which hung perilously on one hinge. He resisted the urge to miracle it fixed.   


“Yessss,” Crowley said. Ah. Nervous. “Just a bit. Nothing I couldn’t do.”  


He made a motion with his hand, like he was going to snap his fingers. He didn’t. Aziraphale smiled and peered through the nearest window that wasn’t boarded up.  


“There’s certainly a bar in there,” he said, “Looks like there’s enough room to have a good sized establishment. And there’s plenty enough foot traffic here, so you might have a good amount of customers once it’s nice and fixed up.”  
  


“Do you like it?” Crowley asked. If he was a handwringer, he would be rubbing his skin raw. As it was, his hands were shoved halfway into the too-small pockets he had invented, and he was affecting an air of total disinterest.   


Extremely nervous, Aziraphale corrected himself.  


“Quite,” Aziraphale confirmed as he continued to look through the window. He had to refrain from trying to imagine what he would do with it, if the place were his. Crowley’s sense of interior design did not quite jive with his own, and he didn’t want to ‘cramp his style’ as it were. Still. The wood floors were nice enough to maybe convince him not to turn them into grey tile. “In fact, I imagine I might stop in after I close the bookshop every night. Just to start your night off.”  


Crowley smirked, then smiled, then spent some amount of time trying to wrestle it off his face. He shrugged in one long movement, leaning against the window frame until it gave a threatening creak.   


“Yeah?” he asked, then nodded. “Good.”  


Aziraphale removed the sheet of paper he had printed from the computer out of his back pocket, gently unfolding it. He snapped the paper out taut and the wrinkles vanished from its surface like they’d never been there.  
  


Crowley took the paper when it was held out, and had no trouble wiping the smile off his face then.  


“Barkeeping lessons, my dear,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, “Right here in the city. Best be on that, first.”  


Crowley wasn’t particularly fond of classes. He had to bully himself upright every evening to go and be awkward and learn a new skill with a handful of humans who were also awkwardly trying to learn a new skill. Aziraphale also did not allow him to be fashionably late-- not even once-- or to sleep in. Deprived of the sin of sloth, his mood tended to range between “moderately grouchy” and “irate enough to mix the astronomy and astrology sections of the bookshop together”.   
  


Eventually though, as Aziraphale suspected he would, Crowley came around as he gained confidence. One night that he didn’t have class, Aziraphale closed up shop and came upstairs to find Crowley making something in the kitchen.  


“I made something yesterday in class that I think you’ll like,” Crowley said, delighted, as he flitted through ingredients. Aziraphale caught the faint whiff of mint. “Come on, angel. Sit down.”  


“I didn’t know my flat had a kitchen,” Aziraphale said, perching on the bar stool that hadn’t been there an hour before. Crowley waved a dismissive hand, so Aziraphale let it go. At least it didn’t look like the stainless steel surgical room that Crowley called a kitchen in his own flat. “What are you making?”  


“You’ll see,” Crowley said evasively, so Aziraphale sat back and let him do his thing. He thought about asking the demon to explain his process, then decided against it. Likely he had done that enough in class. Aziraphale stayed quiet, enjoying the peace and the soft noise of the radio in the background. It was raining outside now, a soft pattering on the oculus above the bookshop.  


A little while later, a bright pink drink, garnished with a lime wedge and a mint leaf, was sitting in front of Aziraphale. The angel raised his brow at it, and Crowley hurried to explain.  


“Usually the mint lime syrup for it takes longer to make and chill,” he said, folding his hands on the bartop and resting his chin on them as he looked at Aziraphale. “But I suppose I can cheat here and not get shit for it.”  


He could. Aziraphale smiled and tried the drink. His eyebrows shot up halfway through his sip, which was the most honest review he could have given. Crowley grinned at him. Only the wobbly edge of his mouth betrayed his nerves.  


“It’s good,” Aziraphale said once he’d put the glass down. “Sweet, but the mint is refreshing.”  


“It’s a sweet Fallen Angel,” Crowley said, his grin getting wider as Aziraphale sighed in exasperation at him. _ Of course _ Crowley would find a drink to wordplay with. “What if I made my bar nothing but angel and demon themed?”  


“I think you would get tired of your own cleverness,” Aziraphale said, sipping the drink again. Crowley’s yellow eyes gleamed brightly at this. He picked up the leftover lime and rolled it on the table between his hands.  
  
  
“I also know how to make another drink,” he said, casting Aziraphale a look that was nothing short of demonic amusement. “It’s called a Fluffy Duck.”  


Aziraphale couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him, and Crowley got to work with a grin and a bounce in his step.  


With classes, a new kitchen to operate in, and Aziraphale for taste testing, Crowley began to expand his menu and his skills. Eventually, several weeks after starting classes, Crowley came home with a certificate of graduation. He’d shown it off to Aziraphale, and then was mightily embarrassed when the angel immediately had it framed and hung, along with the bartending licence that appeared shortly after.  


“Are you going to start the bar now?” Aziraphale asked after hanging the licence. The red-haired demon surprised him though, by shaking his head. “What are you going to do now then?”  
  


“Exactly what the other humans in class are doing,” Crowley yawned. He stretched out on the couch and tried not to look at the hanging certificates on the wall. His face was still slightly pink and he was hiding behind his sunglasses. “Go out and get some ‘real world experience’.”  
  


Aziraphale bent down and used one finger to tilt Crowley’s sunglasses up, revealing his overbright yellow eyes. He pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his eye, then let the sunglasses settle back on Crowley’s nose.  


“You’re getting a job?” he asked as he settled back into his armchair, and Crowley sniffed loudly.  


“No,” he said, swinging his knee back and forth. His cheeks had darkened again. “I’m getting _ experience _.”  


It was a job. Miraculously, a position opened up at a conveniently located bar nearby, and Crowley got his _ experience _. The sheer loudness of the scene made it not really to Aziraphale’s taste, but he did come in on occasion to get a drink and to give the harried looking Crowley some support.   


“I’m going to ban talking at my bar,” Crowley announced one morning after work. He was face down on the couch, so it came out more like “_ Mgonbntalkinamuhbah” _, but Aziraphale understood.  


“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale said as he put aside the crate of new books he had just brought home. He went about the shop and watered all of the plants for Crowley. He even gave the pagoda plant a stern talking to. This done, he brought back a hot water bottle and a towel. Draping the towel over Crowley’s shoulders, he rested the bottle close to the base of Crowley’s neck, where he tended to wear most of his tension, and gently massaged the strip of skin between where his wings would have been. “Better?”  


The reply this time _ was _ incoherent.   


After this, Aziraphale made a point of showing up once at the bar to remind-- in the most angelic way possible-- Crowley’s boss what days off and proper break times were supposed to be. Crowley was incensed at him for a few days about it, but ultimately had to admit that the stern reminder had been helpful.   
  


One evening a few months later, right before Crowley left for work, he turned to look at Aziraphale. The angel was bundled up in a blanket on the couch, readying himself for a comfortable, but sleepless night. A stack of books and a newspaper roll sat at his elbow next to his winged mug.   


“I’m going to quit tonight,” Crowley said, his voice so carefully casual that it wasn’t. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Nothing big. I won’t set the place on fire behind me, or anything.”  


“Or anything,” Aziraphale echoed lightly, “What are you planning, then?”  


Crowley leaned slightly. His hair, growing longer every day, swept over his shoulders before he reached up and tied it back into a bun. Aziraphale watched his long fingers sift through red locks for several moments before meeting Crowley’s gaze evenly. Crowley grinned at him.  
  


“Something embarrassing,” he finally admitted, “Boss man has it coming.”  


He did, Aziraphale had to admit, so he bid Crowley a very good night’s work and picked up the newspaper. One mostly completed crossword (“Noted _ Daily Planet _ reporter? I’ve never seen a _ Daily Planet _ newspaper.”), three books, four cups of cocoa, and an eight hour rotation of the moon later, Crowley came sauntering back in, looking high on his own cleverness.   


“Hello, angel,” he practically crowed, bending down to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple. He carded fingers through his white blonde hair. Resting his chin on Aziraphale’s head, he looked at the unfinished spaces in the crossword. “Lois Lane, Doctor, Los Alamos, and URL.”  


“URL?” Aziraphale asked, distracted as he picked up his fountain pen, “What on earth is that?”  


“Computer. What you typed in to find those barkeeping lessons,” Crowley replied, yawning. Aziraphale felt his jaw pop against his head and he winced. “How was your night, angel?”  


“Quiet,” Aziraphale replied, fanning the newspaper to dry the ink. “And yours?”  


He felt rather than saw Crowley’s grin.   


“Oh good,” he said, setting the newspaper aside, “I expect you’re ready for bed?”  


Crowley was, and so they both went. A day after Crowley’s one-day-notice, Aziraphale noticed a headline in the newspaper of “POPULAR BAR OWNER CHARGED WITH-- and firmly turned the page. Crowley found it and smirked over the details for a full six hours.   


For his part, Crowley obviously enjoyed the feeling of unemployment more than when he had been fired from Hell. For the next week or so, he lounged about on the couch, wrangled one particularly luxuriant wing-preening from Aziraphale, did a lot of navel gazing and belly scratching, drank a fair amount, and slept to excess.  


Finally, after an appropriate amount of time of experiencing human unemployment--and a polite, pointed nudge from Aziraphale--Crowley got up one morning, dressed in his best, and vanished for most of the day. Before he ran out the door, Aziraphale straightened his tie for him and helped tuck some of the more stubborn fly-away hairs back into his slicked back ponytail.   


“Going to acquire a bar today, dear?” he asked, “The one we looked at? I’m amazed it’s still on the market after so long.”  


“Ngk,” Crowley said, carefully not touching his tie. He had a habit of fussing open his collars and accidentally making himself look more mafia than classy. “It’s a miracle, that is. Open places usually go pretty quick here.”  


“I’m surprised you aren’t considering the bar you were just working at,” Aziraphale said casually, cutting Crowley a narrow look and a smirk. “I’ve heard it’s up for sale after the owner’s unfortunate arrest.”  


Crowley paused in the middle of messing with his cufflinks for Aziraphale to restraighten. They were a lovely pair the angel had gotten him, silver edges with blue black enameling, the silver shining through to reveal the constellation Serpens. They were his favorite and meant for best occasions.  


“That _ would _ be properly demonic, wouldn’t it?” he asked, wiggling his fingers as Aziraphale fixed his cuffs. His snake tongue slivered out, and his eyes gleamed behind his sunglasses. “I can’t believe you thought of something so devious, angel.”  


Aziraphale gave him a Look, shot over the tops of his ridiculous spectacles. Crowley couldn’t help but grin. He rolled the idea of this second bar around in his head, considering it slowly…  
  


...but no. The idea was tempting, but it was more trouble and attention than it was probably worth. It was also not _ new _. It was already built to someone else’s liking. The first bar, ramshackle and held together with screws and bits of wood as it was, was starting new. It needed care, like the yellowed and shriveled plants he usually started with. With work, they became green and strong. With work, this new bar could become something to be proud of.   


That would be _ his _ doing. That would be his Creation. Stars didn’t burn in his hands anymore but he could fix the broken things left behind by the careless ones who came before.   


“I like my bar,” he said simply, shrugging loosely. Aziraphale’s blue eyes flickered over him, shining just a little while he brushed Crowley’s shoulders off. “Alright?”  


“You look excellent, my dear,” Aziraphale said, “Very classy. The sunglasses make you just seedy enough to be acquiring a tumbledown establishment.”  


Crowley grinned brightly at this pronouncement. They shared a kiss there by the door--Aziraphale snapped the sign around to “CLOSED” with one hand as a customer approached-- and then Crowley bounded out into the wilds of London.   


Aziraphale left the sign as it was, smiling politely at the bewildered woman standing on the stoop as he pulled the window shutters closed on her face. Bouncing slightly on his heels, Aziraphale went about his day. The sun passed over the oculus overhead, and long shadows were beginning to stretch across the bookshop when Aziraphale heard the antique grumble of the Bentley, and then the bell over the door.  


“Upstairs, dear!” he called, quickly clearing a path through the new books he had set up in piles around him. He was sorting through a small trove he had picked up at auction. Most were turning out to be duds, but there were a few here and there that, with a bit of love, would look lovely on his bookshelves.   


Crowley appeared in the door. He looked as if he’d never left, his hair still perfectly in place and his suit still well-pressed and in order. In one hand he held a file, and in the other was a paint bucket with a swatch of rich, warm red splashed on the metal lid.  


He handed over the file first. Aziraphale opened it, spotted the certificate of sale inside with the affiliated paperwork, and then shut it again. With a snap of his fingers, he sent it to his (recently fireproofed) safe next to all of his own important paperwork for the bookshop.  


Crowley set the bucket on the side table with a decisive _ thunk _ of metal on wood.  


“What do you think?” he asked proudly, tilting the bucket to show Aziraphale the color swatch. Aziraphale quickly snapped the stacks of books to the other side of the room. Duds or not, they were still _ books _ and didn’t deserve a horrifying death via paint spill.   


“Lovely, Crowley,” he said, “Very _ you. _ Though, I do have to ask, the building might need a bit of… _ structural _work before a coat of paint?”  
  


“Well of course,” Crowley sniffed, setting the can back upright. “Just things to think about for the future, you know. Tomorrow bright and early I’m going to head over and start putting the place together, and--”  


He froze, then looked at Aziraphale keenly. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at him.  


“...I haven’t taken you out in a while,” Crowley said slowly, “Have you eaten today?”  


“No,” Aziraphale admitted, a bit shy with the sudden hyper focus on him, “I’ve been quite preoccupied, and it’s alright my dear. You’ve been exceptionally busy lately and I wouldn’t want to burden you with worrying about me--”

“You’re not a burden,” Crowley said instantly. That word was a familiar, well-worn argument between them, a tract worn smooth in the path of their lives. Aziraphale smiled patiently, prepared to continue arguing, but Crowley interjected. “And I don’t want to neglect you for this.”  


“I’m hardly _ neglected _\--”  


“Ignored then,” Crowley said, “I don’t want to ignore you for this either.”  


They looked at each other for several long seconds. Aziraphale finally took a deep breath through his nose and smiled again.  
  


“Let’s go to the Ritz, then,” he said, offering up a compromise. Too often he’d left it to Crowley to get to the halfway point and not find Aziraphale there. He could do it for them this time. “For dinner, for me, since you’ll hardly eat anyway. And then you can pick a movie to go see in theater, to celebrate the purchase.”  


Crowley perked up brightly.   


“Star Wars?” he asked, as if the final movie hadn’t been out of theaters for several months now. That wouldn’t matter at all when they got there. “You’ll watch Star Wars with me?”  


“I will, and I will eat popcorn and soda with you too as I try to follow the plot,” Aziraphale laughed, and allowed Crowley to step forward and pull him into a hug. “Wily serpent.”  


“Wily angel,” Crowley countered fondly, “Listen to you, tempting me like this.”  


He glanced down at his suit, then raised his hand to snap his fingers, clearly preparing to dress back into something more his usual. Aziraphale caught his hand quickly.  


“Leave it,” he said, and Crowley’s glasses slipped down his nose so he could give Aziraphale a bewildered look. “It looks good on you, dear. I’ll change into something to match.”  


“You--_ you’ll _change into something?” Crowley asked, following him into their bedroom. Aziraphale opened the slightly disused closet and began to rummage. He sounded a bit like his world had tilted on its axis. “I can only imagine your idea of dressing up is what you wore to France that once.”  


“You liked me in that outfit,” Aziraphale replied primly. Crowley made a strangled noise behind him, so he knew he had won that. “And I do have some more modern waistcoats-- though they simply don’t make them the same way these days--”  


“You’ve been wearing the same waistcoat since 1890, it’s practically melting. Please, pardon me if I thought you’d stopped shopping at some point.”  
  


Twenty minutes later found Aziraphale dressed up and bundled into the Bentley, wearing both a new waistcoat and nice red bowtie matching Crowley’s button up. Crowley’s face matched both as he drove them to dinner first, and he was so flustered he even tried everything that Aziraphale held out to him without complaint. The theater was just as good, and he had purchased a bag of salty popcorn and a cherry soda to try.   


Aziraphale barely understood what was going on and made some pointed comments on overused literary tropes. Crowley laughed and argued back and wrapped his arm over the back of Aziraphale’s seat. Aziraphale pushed up the arm of the chair and leaned into him.   


A year ago they wouldn’t have dared. Not in public, not where they could potentially be seen. Now though? An arm around him, his coat tossed over Crowley’s shoulders when it got too cold. Hands laced together. A finger hung in a belt loop. Aziraphale was practically giddy with it all.   


He was just working out how to avoid admitting he had enjoyed the soda when Crowley looked over at him. Their theater room was devoid of anybody but themselves, so nobody was there to hush the demon as he talked over the movie. There was also nobody to say anything about his eyes, visible what with his sunglasses propped on top of his head. He’d also finally given into the urge to open his collar, his tie vanished to seemingly nowhere.   


“Have you seen the originals?” he asked, “The original trilogy?”  


Aziraphale hadn’t. Crowley looked at him, long and unblinking, until Aziraphale sighed deeply and waved his hand. The demon grinned brightly, and once _ Rise of Skywalker _ was done and Crowley had voiced his opinion of it-- and quickly tweeted something incendiary about it to start a fandom uproar--the theater suddenly found itself in possession of an older projector and the original films.   


They were there all night. The theater staff barely seemed to notice, what with their cups and popcorn refilling automatically and a small miracle that kept people looking from Theater 9 to Theater 5, eyes gliding right over the doorway to Theater 7 like it wasn’t there. By the time they were finished, it was deep into early morning and the theater was long since closed. Aziraphale had forgotten his argument against soda as they stood together in the darkened lobby, illuminated only by the faint lights that lit the movie posters lining the walls.  
  


“You know,” Aziraphale said, pausing when Crowley distractedly reached up and began tidying his bowtie for him. He raised his chin to allow the demon’s long fingers to fiddle with his collar. “We don’t go to the movies often enough. I suppose I could do with more popular culture in my life.”  


Crowley’s mouth turned up into a sickle curve smile.   


“You liked it,” he said, “You liked Star Wars.”  


“Very ‘Shakespeare in space’.” Aziraphale said, grinning when this earned him a groan.   
  


“Don’t ruin it for me, angel,” Crowley mock-pleaded, though his smile still reached his eyes. His brows dropped a little. “And yeah. We can go to more movies. It’s whatever we want, remember? Just--”  


His hands left the bowtie. They curled loosely around Aziraphale’s own, bony fingers lacing between his larger ones.   


“--There might not be as much time for it, between the bookshop and the bar,” he said quietly, “Is that okay?”  


“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale smiled patiently at him, “I appreciate this consideration. Truly, I do. But you haven’t yet discovered one of the best things about running your own business, and you’re going to be delighted when you do.”  


Crowley blinked at him. He gave Aziraphale a confused look. Aziraphale leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Crowley’s, smiling right into his yellow eyes.  


“_ You _get to decide when to open and close, Crowley,” he explained, “If you decide you want to spend all night binge watching movies from the early 1980s, you just flip over the “Closed” sign.”  
  


Crowley paused. He tipped his head. He smiled first, in belated understanding. Then he grinned like a shark.  


“Terrible for business,” he said. Aziraphale shrugged. “Alright. We can make our schedules work. We can make _ this _ work, right?”  


“I think we’ve been through too much to not at least try,” Aziraphale replied. “And-- Crowley--”  


He squeezed Crowley’s hands.   


“--I don’t want you to narrow yourself down to me,” he explained, trying to find the words, “The things I want don’t always have to be the things you want too. You deserve to be happy too, and that doesn’t have to-- and shouldn’t-- revolve entirely around me. And we have a long, long time ahead of us to figure out how to make it work.”  


Crowley’s shark grin softened around the edges. He rubbed his thumb over Aziraphale’s knuckles.  


“We do, don’t we?” he said, bending a bit to press a kiss just at the corner of Aziraphale’s eye. Aziraphale scrunched his nose up and this made Crowley’s grin a bit tighter, a bit fiercer, as if trying to contain the same warm, bubbly light feeling building up in him that Aziraphale could feel in himself. Crowley’s thumb squeezed just a little harder. “Ready to go home?”  


Aziraphale was.  
  


They slept in the next day, in spite of Crowley’s original promise of ‘bright and early’. It was nearly two in the afternoon when Aziraphale, vexed about the time of day and having the sheets tangled around his legs, pushed Crowley out of bed. Red hair a wild mess, his suit rumpled from collapsing face first into bed that morning and falling asleep instantly, Crowley grouched and slunk around the bedroom until he eventually dressed into what could only be described as a workman’s outfit. He even had an apron somehow pre-splattered with paint.   
  


“Do you know how to do a renovation?” Aziraphale asked, staring at Crowley as he came downstairs finally. He had actually swapped the sign to OPEN, feeling rather guilty about keeping the store closed completely the last few days.   


“I spent an abominable amount of time with the son of God, excuse you,” Crowley sniffed, “You pick up carpentry when that’s all there is to do all day because he’s not taking the temptations I keep offering.”  


There was more to renovation than carpentry, Aziraphale supposed, but he also supposed that Crowley would cross those bridges when he got to them. In the meantime, after wishing Crowley a good day’s work, he entertained himself with the idea of Crowley being taught to work with wood by Jesus. He himself hadn’t stuck around after he had forgotten to rent an inn room to ensure Mary had a place to give birth-- nativity scenes still made him blush scarlet in embarrassment-- but Crowley had apparently taken a far keener interest in the son of God.   


These thoughts spiraled towards the crucifixion, as they inevitably did, and Aziraphale found his mood darkening. Perhaps he should have stayed around. Crowley had played off her grief rather casually at the time, but later she had gone back to the mountain and raged until she could do nothing but lay in the dirt and weep tiredly. Aziraphale had gathered her up and brought her to an inn, but there was nothing to ease that burning anger racing through her, just as nothing really filled the hollow space that had been cut into Aziraphale.   


Aziraphale eventually forced himself to look up from his work and push the spiraling thoughts away. He’d only had the shop open for a few hours, but was no longer in the mood to try. With a snap, the sign swung around to closed and he slowly went back upstairs and laid down.  
  


Crowley came home several hours after that, still grumbling about his lack of a decent start to the day. Aziraphale listened to him as he wound around the shop, dropping what sounded like a toolbox and workboots on the floor before coming upstairs.  


“Well, I didn’t get _ much _done today,” Crowley said as he came into their bedroom, “But I’ve got a good checklist going, and--”  


He paused. Aziraphale stared at the back of his eyelids.  


“Angel?” Crowley’s voice was hushed. He snapped his fingers, and the bedside lamp came on with a soft yellow glow. There was another snap, followed by the rustle of clothes. Pajamas, Aziraphale noted dimly as he felt Crowley crawl onto the bed with him and lay down. A hand was laid flat on his back between his shoulders. “Angel, what’s wrong.”  


“...I’m fine, dear,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. This wouldn’t suffice. “...Just old thoughts.”  


Slowly he rolled over to face Crowley. The hand pulled away.  


“Why don’t you tell me what you did today?”  


Crowley started slowly, haltingly, checking Aziraphale’s face every few minutes as he spoke. He described pulling out old drywall and taking apart the busted window sills and reinstalling a new hinge on the door. He went through the checklist he had made: the bar needed refinishing. New walls. New _ wiring _. The fireplace was in shambles. The beer taps and hoses that had been left behind were falling apart and probably needed total replacement. The bathroom was unspeakable. There was an old fridge in the back room with some abandoned lunch that Crowley was certain was sentient and deserved rights to life, so he hadn’t snapped it away just yet, though he had tied the fridge door shut in case it escaped.  


The floors were nice enough to keep, though they needed sanding and restaining. Aziraphale smiled finally at this, and he felt Crowley shift happily beside him. Aziraphale opened his eyes to look at him.  


“There you are,” Crowley said, “You wanna talk about it?”  


Aziraphale thought about it. He considered it, then slowly shook his head.  


“No,” he breathed out a deep sigh, “Just some old things that needed reshelving, dear. I just let it get to me. I’m glad you’re home.”  


In response to this, Crowley scooted closer and effectively wrapped himself around Aziraphale, bony ankles digging into Aziraphale’s as he hooked his legs around him. Aziraphale allowed him to do his best impression of a snake in human form, closing his eyes and pressing his face into Crowley’s shoulder. In spite of the hurried change of clothes, Crowley still smelled a bit of old drywall and sawdust.   


Crowley continued talking then, murmuring softly about his grandiose plans for the bar, his thoughts and ideas and what he would do with the monster in the fridge, and a timetable for when Aziraphale was to visit so he could get the proper effect of the progress of the thing. Aziraphale dozed like this, letting the tension bleed out of him as he did.   


He didn’t achieve proper sleep this night, but that was alright. Crowley brought him breakfast, skipped going to the bar that day to stay with him around the shop, and talked to him, and Aziraphale was feeling a little closer to rights by evening. It was with firmness the day after that Aziraphale made him get back to his project, and great reluctance that Crowley left him, but that was alright too.   


They had time to figure it out, after all.   


Several weeks passed like this. Crowley came and went, barring at least one night a week where he took Aziraphale out for dinner. Aziraphale visited the ramshackle bar at intervals, admiring the progress Crowley had made, and soon enough admiring the progress that human workers had made when Crowley’s expertise had run out.   
  


The old refrigerator was dragged out to the alleyway behind the bar. Crowley ringed it in a protective circle, propped the door open a crack, and occasionally left offerings of food, to both Aziraphale’s amusement and creeping horror.  


When the bar was finally done, Aziraphale hung about for several hours to admire it. The red wood practically glowed, the line of stools immaculate, and the racks overhead were just ready for rows and rows of crystalline glasses. The walls were exposed brick, and there was a row of tables and black leather-lined chairs around the space. The floors were lovely, in Aziraphale’s humble opinion. The lighting was perfect, and the TV that hung on the wall managed to be audible without being blaringly loud. There was a round booth table leftover from the old infrastructure that Crowley didn’t have the heart to tear out, so he’d had it restored and given a privacy screen. Crowley put several long planters along the bottom of the screen, and with enough shouting, had threatened several sizeable vines into growing up it.  


Up above, the rafters had been restored. Several evenings were spent with Crowley climbing about in them-- in both human and snake form-- and putting in planters overhead. Vines of all kinds draped down into the empty space, their leaves a flash of brilliant green against the warm reds and browns of their backdrop. Planters dotted the landscape of the bar here and there. Aziraphale particularly enjoyed a large_ monstera deliciosa _ next to what had quickly become _ his _spot at the bar.  


The whole thing had come together quite nicely, except--  


“It’s got a gas leak the humans can’t seem to fix,” Crowley glowered at the restored fireplace, “I’ve told it not to leak so I passed inspection, but that’s not really _ fixing _ it, is it?”  


“It’s still a lovely fireplace,” Aziraphale countered, “And as long as it’s not leaking it should be alright.”  


Crowley hung up an opening date on the sign. Fliers were posted up and handed out. Ad spaces were bought. Ticket drawings for free drinks were done. A little bit of demonic energy was spread around. People stopped to admire the bar through the windows and tell him what an excellent job he was doing to fix the old place up. A bright spot in the neighborhood, for sure. Crowley always came home flustered and shifty after getting a certain amount of compliments.   


“I can probably do all the work myself,” Crowley said one day, “A lot of things I can just--”  


He waved a hand to indicate a miracle.  


“--but should I hire someone else too? Keeping up appearances, and all. No use in humans questioning how their bartender does all this work.”  


“Humans don’t always notice things, dear,” Aziraphale replied, “But if you think it’s prudent, I don’t see why not. You’ll just have to make sure the miracles you _ do _ work don’t get noticed by your assistants.”  


Crowley was then introduced to the long and laborious process of interviewing people for a job. He’d been on the other end as Nanny Ashtoreth, but a wave of the hand had been all that was needed for Mrs. Dowling to hire her on the spot. There wasn’t really a miracle that could call in the perfect person for a job though, so Crowley had to grind his teeth and work his way through the applications and their follow ups.   


Eventually, he landed on two. Evelyn Shaw, with dark hair tied in a crown braid and thick glasses that magnified her eyes. She didn’t even stand to Crowley’s shoulder and seemed an unlikely choice-- but Crowley was adamant that she was good for it.  


In any case, she hadn’t run screaming at the sight of the fridge outside ringed in a demonic containment circle and seemed to take Crowley’s insistence that the lunch-monster inside be offered scraps twice a day seriously, going so far as to write it in a notepad. Aziraphale thought that was rather brave.   


“What’s its name?” Evelyn Shaw had asked, her expression solemn, and Crowley had hired her. Two days later a brass plate with “Boots” engraved into it was affixed to the cracked open door of the fridge.   


Aziraphale decided then that the best way to deal with the possible demonic possession of an old sandwich was to avoid it entirely.   


His second hire came a little while after. Kayne Cartwright, with pale eyes and a tense, rigid set of his shoulders. He didn’t have the same bartending resume that Evelyn had, but could clear a table, wash dishes, and have glasses hung up and ready again with a speed that spoke of years of cleaning up other people’s messes.  


He didn’t say a lot to Crowley, and Crowley pretended he wasn’t intimidated by a human.  


And then, _ finally, _ opening night.  


Aziraphale calmly sat at the bar, drinking the very first drink of the night like he had promised all those months ago. In contrast, Crowley moved around behind the bar, wiping his hands over and over on a towel, messing with bottles, and triple checking the beer taps. Evelyn was busy in the backroom, cutting out some last minute fruit slices and garnishes. Kayne was copying the cocktail menu on the blackboard nearby, studiously ignoring the angel and demon at the bar.  


There was a sizable crowd outside, lingering around the grand opening sign. Aziraphale listened to the muted sound of the chatter outside, briefly admiring the way the neon lights from the buildings around them were shining through the window. Not too obtrusive, just enough for atmosphere. He turned to look at Crowley, who was now scrubbing a tumbler hard enough that the rag squeaked on the glass.  


“Crowley,” Aziraphale said gently, “Crowley, dear. It’s clean.”  


“Were you nervous?” Crowley asked, sliding the tumbler away and picking up the stack of cocktail menus. He came out from behind the bar and began to put one on each table, winding slowly around the open space. “When you opened your bookshop?”  


“No,” Aziraphale said truthfully, and this seemed to put Crowley more out of sorts. He twitched several different ways at once, then looked like he was trying to fake confidence. “No, I wasn’t, because I had little to no intention of having my business be _ successful _ , dear. I don’t exactly work to sell my books.”  
  
  
“And me....?”  
  
  
“Perfectly normal, Crowley,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. He sipped on his cocktail for a moment and made a pleased sound through his teeth. “You’re looking for this to be a success.”  


Crowley looked at him.   


“No blessings,” he said after a long moment. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “No miracles out of you. I want to see this through on its own feet.”  


Rich, coming from the one who got impatient when Aziraphale did things the human way. Crowley was looking at him seriously though, so Aziraphale set his glass down on the wood with a satisfying _ thunk _.  


“Deal,” he agreed, “I’ll just be an observer tonight.”  


Crowley stepped forward and Aziraphale turned all the way around on his bar stool, bending slightly so they could share a kiss. Crowley grinned against his lips.  


“Your mouth tastes like lime.”  


“All the better,” Aziraphale replied. He leaned back and plucked said fruit slice from his drink and popped it into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley promptly horrified him by eating it, peel and all. “_ Crowley _\--!”  


“Hey, is fifteen minutes late fashionable enough?” Evelyn said, coming out of the back room finally. She was wiping her hands on a rag and squinting at them through her thick glasses. “Am I interrupting?”  


Crowley, grinning and picking bits of lime peel out of his teeth, shook his head. He headed to the door. One backwards look at Aziraphale-- who gave him an encouraging nod, a smile, and a long sip from his drink-- and then Crowley was opening the door and stepping out.   


Aziraphale waited inside, smiling as he watched the demon’s silhouette as he spoke to the crowd. Hell had tried very hard to beat it out of Crowley, but he very much did enjoy showmanship and presentation. Any chance he got to _ impress _ he took it.  


Evelyn was behind the bar, resting her elbows up on it and putting her chin in her hands. She was short enough that she looked like a child at a restaurant booth. Behind her, Kayne hung the blackboard back onto its hook and disappeared into the back. 

  
“How long have you been together?” she asked mildly, and Aziraphale sighed. Small talk.  


“An eternity, dear,” he said, holding his glass to his face, “Though mutual circumstances have made it more possible to be _ open _ about it as of this year.”  


“Oh,” Evelyn straightened up. Aziraphale raised a prayer upwards when the doors opened and her attention turned that way, “That’s good.”  


The first wave of people came in a slightly disorganized, hesitant stumble. Nobody wanted to be the first person to actually put foot to floorboard, but _ everybody _did want a drink, so eventually the place got louder and more crowded. Aziraphale watched contentedly from the sidelines as Crowley worked. The only miracle he did was to turn eyes away from his spot at the bar so as to avoid unwanted attention.  


Well. He prevented a glass from being upset by someone’s elbow, but that hardly counted.   
  


The night wore on. Crowley managed to look as suave and cool as he always tried to be almost the whole time, though there were a few times a mad grin clearly wanted to erupt over his face. He caught Aziraphale’s eye once while the angel was delicately removing a cherry from his drink and eating it, and spent a solid ten minutes flushed and mumbling at his patrons.   


Evelyn, for her part, did extremely well. She bore the brunt of several jokes at her height with a blank, fish-eyed stare until the jokesters got uncomfortable enough to look away, and her serving time was impeccable. Aziraphale saw her leave on break with a plate of leftover garnish and fruit rinds to go feed Boots.   


Kayne appeared as needed, ghosting in to get the glasses and wipe down the tables. He somehow managed washing the dishes with hardly a single obtrusive noise. He was also coincidentally tall, broad-shouldered, and intimidating enough that everyone assumed he was the bouncer and behaved appropriately when he was sitting--_ looming _\--in the back corner.   
  


Eventually, there was last call and a final rush to the bar, and finally the night was over. Crowley locked the doors and eventually got the final stragglers out, one by one. With tired, but pleased, gumption, he made four final drinks, and Aziraphale, Crowley, Evelyn, and Kayne sat at the bar together.  


“I think it went _ splendidly _,” Aziraphale said, “A wonderful job well done, all three of you.”  


He held Crowley’s gaze with this statement. Crowley pinked a little bit, rattling the ice obnoxiously in his glass.  


“It was a very good first night,” Evelyn agreed matter-of-factly. Kayne grunted a nonverbal response, but joined in when they clinked glasses together. They spent some time talking and drinking before clean up, and Crowley went out with the last of the scraps to give Boots a final meal for the night.   


When clean up was done, Evelyn and Kayne left together. Aziraphale watched them go, making sure they weren’t coming back before looking back to Crowley. The demon was clicking off all the lights, emptying the register, and giving the bar one final wipe down.   


“Well?” Aziraphale asked, folding his hands in his lap and turning in his seat as Crowley came around, the Bentley’s key in hand. “How did you like the first night?”  


Crowley shrugged nonchalantly. He propped his sunglasses up on his head.  


“It was alright,” he said, “I guess I could do it again.”  


“Just alright?”   


“Well, it wasn’t terrible,” Crowley hiked his hip on the stool next to Aziraphale. “I suppose I could open tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after--”  


“You’re a menace,” Aziraphale interrupted, smiling, “Seriously, my dear.”  


Crowley fidgeted. He looked off somewhere to their left, then he looked down. Aziraphale watched him carefully, reading through the edges of Crowley's body language. He had liked it. He had liked it so much, in fact, that he was scared to admit it out loud, because things he liked tended to get taken away from him. He had to _ hide _ things that he liked, if he wanted them to be safe.  


Aziraphale slipped his fingers through Crowley’s and squeezed. Crowley smiled back at him, though it was a little wan and nervous. That was alright. Eternity to figure it out, and all that.  
  


“It was alright then,” Aziraphale confirmed, and Crowley nodded. His yellow eyes gleamed with relief and gratefulness, that Aziraphale hadn’t forced him to say it outloud. “Ready to lock up and go home?”  


Crowley was.  


Locking up the bar for the first time took on its own significance. Crowley flipped the lit OPEN sign to CLOSED, locked both deadbolts with care, checked the door with a hard tug and slipped the key onto the ring next to the Bentley’s key. Aziraphale regarded both fondly as they got in the car. With enough time and influence, he suspected the bar would wind up just as alive as the Bentley, or the bookshop.  


Crowley started the car and started to pull away from the curb, and Aziraphale looked up in time to notice the sign.  


The sign that had most assuredly not been there when Aziraphale had first walked in that evening, and suddenly he _ realized.  
_

His first thought was that somehow, _ somehow _ it had just slipped his notice the natural way, the way things did when he was reading something good and didn’t care to be distracted. Somehow he’d just been coincidentally busy at all the right times and didn’t _ see _.   


But he knew better. It hadn’t just slipped his notice. Crowley had helped it along, twisting reality just a bit to avoid an early reveal. A fold of paper, a change of subject. Not a lie, _ never a lie _, but a carefully orchestrated omission.  


“I cannot _ believe _ you hid that from me.”  


Crowley turned to look at him, his grin coming back full force.   


“Like it?” he asked, serpentine tongue slithering out between his teeth, “It’s us, you know.”  


Aziraphale, who had a thousand retorts on his tongue, found himself biting them back. The name was on the nose, sure, a terrible pun and an inside joke wrapped up together. The second comment was also true. It was them. It was their first meeting and it was everything after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t. They had lost the first one and gained a new one. Aziraphale looked studiously at the white typeset on the window, the words sweeping over dark glass in immaculate, flowing cursive. After a few moments, he looked over at Crowley again.   


“Do you suppose your patrons will ask where the serpent is at?” he asked, and Crowley seemed to grin all the fiercer now. “Or the apple tree?”  


“Or where the naked people are hiding?” Crowley suggested, and Aziraphale scoffed, “They might. And if they really want a snake, the barkeep could slip out for a minute and there might be a great big fuck-off python hanging out in the rafters for a while--”  


“Oh, _ Crowley _, you wouldn’t--” Aziraphale sighed, “It’s one thing to have a bit of fun, but don’t leave poor Evelyn and Kayne to deal with that on their own, my dear. They’re remarkably even-keeled but I think that might be a bit beyond the pale.”  


Crowley fake-pouted. Aziraphale could tell it was fake, because the edges of his mouth were tight to keep from laughing, and he could see the crows feet around Crowley’s eyes crinkling up.   


“I wouldn’t,” Crowley finally said, “At least, not without plenty of warning.”  


Aziraphale rolled his eyes but smiled anyway as they pulled away, leaving _ The Garden of Eden _ behind them on their way home.


End file.
